Gentlemen
by makepastaxnotwar
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, a rich Lord, takes the young American Alfred Jones into his care. Victorian!AU. "And I'll live without you love, but what good is one glove, without the other?"


**A/N: Alright, just to clarify: Alfred is seventeen (sixteen is the legal age to have sex in the UK, so no fear; he's legal) and Arthur is twenty-two. Arthur doesn't live alone, in case you were wondering—his parents are away visiting relatives. Alfred, on the other hand, has been living on the street since he was ten (accompanied by his twin brother, Matthew) **

**Matthew became ill and was sent to the workhouse hospital), and Alfred never saw him again. It's very unlikely that Matthew would have survived (but I can't give that away just yet), and if he **_**had **_**died his body would be sent to be **_**publicly **_**dissected, etcetera. **

**I'm sixteen (due to be seventeen soon), so obviously I've got other commitments—such as college, and volunteer work. I'll try to write to the best standard I can! So please, please leave reviews and things. **

This was not the first time Arthur had been brought a young boy like Alfred. Sometimes they came to him in droves; bitter, confused and dirtied young boys who'd been found scrounging in bins or lurking in alleyways. Francis would bring them to Arthur once or twice a week—sometimes three—and each time Arthur was required to have them washed, clothed and (the older ones) shaven. He never questioned them, never pitied them and never, ever judged them. Their stories were their own, and most certainly nothing to do with him—or anything he could ever hope to understand.

Alfred was not so different from the other boys he had cared for. He, too, had unruly and unwashed hair that was just begging to be brushed and cut; clothes that clung to his lithe and bruised frame, torn and reeking of stale sweat and sex. Yet in his own way, he was different for he spoke loudly and brashly in his strong, American accent.

Said boy was sat before the Englishmen on a small wooden stool, twisting his hands this way and that as his little face scrunched up in a curious disposition. Alfred genuinely despised being scrutinised; it reminded him of all those helpless times, when he'd be sat on a stall similar to this one, prodded and poked at by an (often) fat man who appeared to be treating him like he was some pig ready to be sold at the market. Alfred shuddered at this thought. Arthur noticed, and rubbed the back of his neck gracelessly.

"Francis said they call you Alfred." Blue eyes widened; _no one _had called him that in _years. _"…Is that correct? Or would you prefer to be called something else?"

"Alfred," the boy quickly said. "They _used _to call me Alfred."

The Englishman's right brow quirked upwards, his lips parting slightly as he spoke. "_Oh_. The use of past tense suggests you've been called some rather…distasteful things, Alfred. "And before the boy had the chance to object, or lie, Arthur said: "Don't tell me. Please. I'd prefer not to know—at least, not until we've gotten to know one another better. I always find it off-putting to know one's whole life story from the moment you meet them. Don't you agree?"

"…I…Guess."

"That's very peculiar."

At Arthur's perception the American looked up with confusion, frowning. Peculiar? Well, yes; he had to admit it was a _bit _peculiar—the man having dressed him up and fed him, and the like. But there had to be a reason. There was **always **a reason—and most of the time it involved sex. He supposed Mr. Kirkland was _quite _attractive, and strangely young-looking…But still, at the same time, he might try (and risk in doing so) to resist his advances.

And once, just once, he might slip away without being treated like a common whore.

"…Alfred? My, you were an absolutely loud and obnoxious young man when you walked in—and now look at you. You can't even string a full sentence together."

"Can too."

"Don't talk like that," Arthur admonished, reaching for the tray of tea. "It sounds awfully childish, and I won't have childish young men running amok. My family's estate is—"

"Sir, I mean no disrespect, but…D'you think you could maybe…Shut up? This is nice and all, but I can't help but get the feeling you—"

"—Want you for your body?" Arthur peered down at him through long lashes, setting the china teapot back onto the tray. He watched the American for a little while longer, before a smile quirked at his lips, and he went back to preparing their drinks.

"It wouldn't be the first time someone's thought like that, I can assure you. I also don't suppose it helped an awful lot when Francis was fluttering his eyelashes at you, did it? No. I'm sorry, Alfred.

And then the Englishman went about fiddling with his desk, picking up papers that had been randomly scattered here and there, not taking a single glance in Alfred's direction. He always felt a little awkward trying to gain their trust.

"That's weird," Alfred muttered, clenching his teeth a little too much as he eyed Arthur's back tense. "Most of the guy's would straight-up tell me. I think I preferred it that way; at least they weren't leading me on."

"What on _earth_ do you mean? You poor soul! It's almost as if your whole life has revolved around this." He would have continued, had he the stomach to hear what Alfred had to say, but there was niggling sort of feeling inside of his gut. And, besides; it wasn't actually in his best interest to dwell on the subject of Alfred's (obviously) shady past. As his mother always said; it was time to move on from the past, and into the future. What once was no longer mattered.

His face fell, and Arthur reached for his cup of tea. He noticed Alfred had not touched the stuff (unaware that the American found it ghastly), and brought the cup to his lips whilst sipping gently. _Ah. Tea always did the trick. _It was such a shame that Alfred didn't feel up to drinking it!

The silence that followed was oddly calming—more for Arthur, however. The Brit didn't usually mind it; he would often tuck himself away with a book by the fire, or fall into long and deep thoughts. But Alfred, on the other hand, found it reminded himself of the true and honest loneliness he had experienced over the years. As Arthur busied himself with looking over the few papers he had scattered on his desk, Alfred found his bright blue eyes darting back and forth as they studied the lavish room.

Soon enough they focused on the portrait of, what he guessed to be, Arthur's family. If he squinted he could make out the small inscription that read: "The Kirkland Family", and a small artist's signature (Feliciano Vargas). The word family brought back both shameful and saddening thoughts into Alfred's head. He remembered how his family, before his father succumbed to sickness on the journey from America and his mother was taken to work in the prostitute house, was wholesome and very much like Arthur's.

Arthur's mother had the same delicate shape of Arthur's head; feminine, and a slightly pointed at the chin. He possessed not only his father's golden blonde hair, but those dazzling green eyes that reminded Alfred of emeralds. The stern expression on Mr Kirkland's face r could easily be found on the Brit's at the best of times—particularly now, in fact, as Alfred stole a glance. And he did wonder if the pair got on, along with the three brothers who stood behind Arthur.

"My mother and father," sighed Arthur, placing his hands beneath his chin. "Alice and Percival Kirkland. Behind me are my three brothers; Adrian, Cillian and Edward."

Alfred opened his mouth—to say sorry, to lie and say he wasn't looking—but closed it again. He sank back into the chair with tinged cheeks, slightly embarrassed, and nodded. At least Arthur had not been cruel.

"My brother's hate me. And I suspect my parent's do, too."

"Why's that?"

Arthur's lips curled into a smile "A_h_. I've got you talking now."

"N-no, I wasn't…I was just…!"

"It's quite alright. I would be curious too, had I walked into a complete stranger's house."

Alfred looked a little like a frightened cat, but quickly settled down and pushed his glasses back into place. "Haven't you ever heard of the saying 'curiosity killed the cat'? I ain't no cat, but I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to get into trouble for prying into your life."

"Heaven's no. There would be absolutely no use in that, Alfred. We'd be back at the beginning." He smiled wryly, and peered down at Alfred's already dirtied fingernails. "Did you happen to go into the garden, perchance?"

He had. He'd seen it from his bedroom window, and quite simply couldn't resist sneaking a peak whilst Arthur went out and purchased his new clothes. He'd ran out there without much thought (ignoring the butler's; Antonio and Lovino) because he got the feeling that Arthur wouldn't particularly mind—and he also didn't give a damn.

Arthur seemed to have this god-awful habit of speaking for him, too.

"I could never resist taking a good old peek there. The flowers are coming along nicely, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess. I don't know. I don't really care about that stuff."

"…Because?" Arthur asked, leaning closer.

"Because flowers are for queers."

In all honesty, Arthur had not been expecting said reply. Alfred seemed like a tentative boy (well, to an extent. He _was _relatively rambunctious when he was stomping around the garden) and Arthur, for some unknown reason, expected better of him. It was hard to remember that the American had had a very different upbringing. Arthur had been sheltered his whole childhood and for the majority of his teenage years; Alfred, on the other hand, had quite possibly been exposed to the life a child should never know.

And all he could do was look upon Alfred with kindly, albeit disappointed, eyes and tap his fingers against the desk. He knew it would do no good to enforce too much discipline straight away.

"Are you really old?"

Arthur stared blankly. It was hard to pretend he wasn't offended. "That's quite an impolite question to ask, Alfred."

"Yeah, okay. But seriously…How _old _are you?"

"Twenty-two," he replied, forcing himself to look Alfred in the eyes. "Almost ancient, as you can tell."

"Well I'm seventeen, so I count as an adult." And then Alfred laughed, as rambunctious and loud as ever. He barely noticed how Arthur's face had lit up.

"I suspected that much. It explains for your incredible lack of maturity."

" Eh? But I just—"

"Never mind," Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Bloody hell _this was going to be a lot of hard work. "Would you like something to eat?"

Alfred could never say no to food. In his opinion, it would be considered impolite. "I think I'd like that."

"And there's that grin again."

"What was that?"

Alfred missed the awkward rub of his neck, and the way Arthur's face lit up. "Nothing, Alfred. Absolutely nothing."


End file.
